


from the ritz to the rubble

by Bellelaide



Series: ENT [7]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 04:06:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18328301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bellelaide/pseuds/Bellelaide
Summary: John sees Jordan in a fight, and he wants Jordan to know how terrified it made him





	from the ritz to the rubble

**Author's Note:**

> Soz bout typos and all the rest of it, soz bout bad grammar, soz bout all the problems w this but pls enjoy as much as u can ily xxxxx

John found out through a Google alert. 

He’d opted to stay home that particular night, tired and uninterested in traipsing around the bars and being papped, headlines proclaiming ‘ENGLAND ACE ON THE PULL’, nonsense that he had to explain to his mother was, in fact, not true. 

It was getting late and sleep was tugging at John’s eyes, the beers he’d drank over the course of the evening making him feel slow and soft. Jordan had gone out five hours ago with his mates and John had dropped him off in town, squeezing his thigh secretly under the dashboard before he got out the car. 

“Have a good night,” he’d said, flashing a dazzling grin across the car. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” 

Jordan was looking devastatingly handsome that night, his eyes glinting with energy, his arms firm in a cream jumper that fitted him annoyingly well. John didn’t want him to leave, even considered jumping in the shower himself and joining him. 

Still, Jordan had left the car alone in a cloud of expensive aftershave and soft skin, the sight of him heading into the pub making John’s stomach knot. He drove home via Tesco and picked up a crate of Fosters and a jumbo sized bag of Thai sweet chilli sensations. At home he sprawled out on the sofa and flicked mindlessly through Sky, channel after channel, never fully paying attention to one programme. Jordan texted him once, around 9pm, saying he was fine and wouldn’t be home any later than 2. 

John was stretching out his legs and getting ready to go up to bed when his phone dinged at 11:30. 

‘Google Alert, ‘Jordan Pickford’: Twitter.com @erinmulaney omg look at Jordan pickford propa fighting in town’ 

John glanced down at his phone, used to the alerts about football and random articles run as space fillers, and his heart stopped in his chest. He clicked on the tweet with a shaky hand, praying it would be someone else, hoping they’d got it wrong - but there was no mistake. It was Jordan, alright, being goaded and poked at like a lion in a cage, people shoving phones in his face and surrounding him, suffocating him. There were so many people around him, he must’ve been so scared, so overwhelmed. 

John closed the page and fought the nausea rolling in his stomach, white hot rage unfurling in his arms and up the back of his neck. He wasn’t breathing as he pulled up Jordan’s contact and pressed dial, his mind whirring - let him be okay, let him be okay, let him be okay. The phone rang and rang and then, infuriatingly, it went to voice mail, and John doubled over and screamed. 

The scream ripped up his throat like a cheese grater, hoarse pain remaining where the noise had been. His vision blurred with tears and he leapt up, starting for the car - only to remember that he’d had three beers and he’d be over the limit if he was pulled over. He screamed again, an animal noise from somewhere deep inside him, and collapsed down on the floor, attempting to unlock his phone three times before the password was accepted and the phone let him in. He phoned Jordan again and once again got his voicemail. 

“You fucking dick!” John shouted, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. “Pick up the fucking phone!” 

He tried to make his brain think logically but he couldn’t, he didn’t know what to do. He thought about phoning a taxi but he didn’t know where Jordan was exactly. He didn’t have the number of anyone Jordan had gone out with, which was - fucking moronic, in hindsight. Facebook, he could try Facebook. John wracked his brains for the names of Jordan’s friends and searched what he was sure was the first and last name of one of the boys who was out. 

He typed out a message, full of typos that predictive text was kind enough to pick up for him, and sent it off. John tried Jordan again, phoning him and then texting him - please answer, I need to know you’re okay. The house was silent and so was John’s phone, the sound of his beating heart filling his ears. With nothing else to do to distract him John brought up the video footage of the fight again. He made it ten seconds into the video before he screamed out in anger and threw his fist at the wall, the paint cracking under his knuckles. 

John hissed in pain and looked down at his hand, grazed and bleeding and pulsing in agony. He had to bite at his lip in an effort to keep tears from spilling over, hot and angry and pathetic. John scrambled to his feet and hobbled into the kitchen, holding his hand to his chest. He dug through the freezer for something cold and pulled out a packet of frozen broccoli florets, grimacing at the thought of eating them. He wrapped the veg in a tea towel and held it over his throbbing knuckles, leaning back against the fridge and letting out a breath, his eyes slipping closed and his head tilted back. 

The sound of a key in the front door jolted John from his thoughts. He pushed off from the fridge and tore down the hall, foot slipping against his phone on the carpet and causing him to fall arse over tit in a heap just before the door, groaning and sprawled like a cracked egg. 

“John?!” 

John lifted his head and took in the sight of Jordan coming home, walking through the door, visibly shaken up but in one piece. Alive. Head still on his shoulders. Staring down at John like he had three heads. 

“What the fuck is going on!” John croaked, grabbing his broccoli and getting shakily to his feet. “Jordan! What the fuck is happening?!” 

“Were you eating frozen broccoli?” 

“Jordan!” John choked, his voice wavering on the verge of tears. “Oh my god. Oh my god.” 

He walked to Jordan and grabbed his face, turning it left and right as he inspected. His cheek was pink, might bruise a bit, but otherwise he seemed fine. There was some blood on the cream jumper, but John didn’t even get the chance to ask before Jordan was speaking. 

“It was - I got in a fight, it’s someone else’s blood - what have you done, John? Why have you got that on your hand?” 

“I’m going to fucking kill them, Jordan. What bar was it? I’m going there now. I’m going to fucking smash everyone. I’m not joking! I’m going to fucking lose it!” 

Jordan’s face softened, his eyebrows furrowing a bit. “Oh, John,” he said, bringing his own swollen hand up and brushing his fingers across John’s throat. “What’ve you done, you spanner? What’ve you bloody done?” 

“There’s a fucking video, on Twitter. I’m so angry Jordan. I’m so fucking angry,” John rasped, throat utterly done in from his earlier display of emotion. “I want to call the police right now. Right fucking - “ 

“John, c’mere, you’re shaking,” Jordan soothed, wrapping his hand around the back of John’s neck. “I’m okay. I’m totally okay. I don’t know what you saw but it wasn’t that bad - “ 

John pulled out of Jordan’s grasp and glared at him with wild eyes. “Not that bad? You were surrounded. People filming you like you’re an animal in a zoo, you’re a fucking. You’re a human being!” 

“Have you punched something?” 

“The wall. I want to punch those - get a taxi. Get the taxi back!” 

“John. It wasn’t - they were being dicks, I let my temper get the better of me, I’ve given statements to the police - I need you to calm down a bit, alright?” 

“I see a video of you surrounded by thugs on the Internet and then you won’t pick up your phone and I have to fucking calm down?!” 

“John. Let me give you a cuddle, let’s sit down on the - “ 

“You’re not listening to me! You’re not taking this seriously!” 

John’s chest was rising and falling heavily. He watched as Jordan raised both his hands palm up and stepped back, away from John, his eyebrows raised and his mouth slightly open. John didn’t want him to move away, had the feeling that if Jordan walked out of his sight ever again he’d die, but he felt like he was suffocating with him so close, too. It was like fuel on a fire or salt in a wound having him stood there like that, almost indifferent like he hadn’t been fighting an hour before. John just wanted the ringing in his ears to stop. 

John’s eyes focussed again on the bloody spots on Jordan’s jumper. “Take that off,” he said, nodding at it. “Get it off.” 

Jordan reached behind his head and pulled the shirt off neck first, holding it in his hands awkwardly. John licked his lips and looked at Jordan’s face. “Don’t touch me,” he said, taking a step forward and ducking his head low, letting his forehead rest against Jordan’s chest, right below the collar bone. He breathed out against his skin and then pushed away, putting distance between them again. 

“What’s going to happen at work?” 

Jordan shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know, do I? Don’t want to think about that right now.” He stepped forward and John flinched. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I’m just going to put this in the washer.” 

John stepped aside and watched as Jordan disappeared into the kitchen. He let his shoulders hit the wall and he breathed in and out, slowly, trying to center himself. “He’s alright,” John whispered to himself, squeezing his eyes closed. “He’s fine.” John dragged his heavy limbs up the stairs, broccoli still awkwardly held to his knuckles. He went to the bathroom and attempted to brush his teeth with his left hand, unable to look himself in the eye in the mirror. 

Jordan shuffled into the bathroom a couple of moments later, standing close behind John and inspecting his cheek in the mirror. John looked at him, at the way his blunt nails pulled at his skin and his eyes narrowed as he searched for signs of a bruise. John’s toothbrush stilled in his mouth and Jordan’s eyes flickered to John’s reflection. 

“I love you,” he said softly. 

John spat into the sink and put his toothbrush back in the holder, pressing hips lips together tightly in an attempt to swallow his response. He dropped his bag of broccoli in the sink and left, ignoring the need in his stomach to press his face into Jordan’s neck and wrap himself around him so that anyone who wanted to get to him had to go through John first. 

He pulled his clothes off and got into bed, pulling the sheets up high around his neck and squeezing his eyes closed. He listened as Jordan came into the room and sighed, coins spilling from his pockets as he pulled his jeans off. The bed dipped when Jordan sat on it and John swallowed at the sound of the sheets whispering against his legs as he pulled them into the bed. They lay in the dark in silence, neither of them particularly tired. 

“Night, John,” Jordan whispered finally, rolling over onto his side. 

John didn’t answer. 

— 

John barely slept all night. He spent hours staring at Jordan, considering taking his phone and tweeting something about the arseholes who’d attacked him, asking them to meet John in a car park and going through them himself. 

He didn’t do any of that, though. He must’ve dozed off eventually because one minute it was dark and the next light was spilling into the room, casting grey shadows along the walls and revealing dust mites dancing in the air. John sat up on his knees and hovered over Jordan, watching him sleep with his head cocked to one side. 

Jordan was always so angelic when he slept, all eyelashes and pink lips. John wanted to pinch his nose until he woke up. The covers were pooled around his waist and John dragged them down and off, leaving Jordan’s heat radiating body exposed to the April air. He leaned across Jordan and rifled around in the bedside drawer for a bottle of lube, setting it down on the mattress next to his knee. John stretched an arm down and closed his fingers over Jordan’s nostrils, counting in his head. One... two... three... four... 

Jordan’s eyes snapped open, panic crossing his face as he looked around wildly. His eyes settled on John and he shoved his hand away from his face, taking a deep breath through his mouth and looking at John confusedly. 

“What - “ 

“Can I get you off?” 

“What - “ 

“Can I?” 

John could see the cogs turning in Jordan’s head, could see him reading John’s expression and sensing his mood. 

“Why are you annoyed at me?” 

“Yes or no.” 

“Yeah, John, don’t need to ask - “ 

“Always need to ask,” John said under his breath, pulling at the waistband of Jordan’s boxers and tossing them on the floor. 

Jordan let his head fall back against the pillows, and he scrubbed a hand down his face, lifting his wrist to check the time on his watch. John uncapped the lube with dark eyes, his mouth set in a hard line. He was sure his hair was all over the place and he knew he needed to shave, but he didn’t care how he looked. 

“Stonesy - “ 

“Spread your legs,” John said, his voice still rough and scratchy. 

Jordan bent an ankle, and John tried not to think about how easy and compliant Jordan always was for him. He pushed the tip of his middle finger against Jordan’s hole, pressing gently in. Jordan’s dick was soft but John could see him beginning to stir, an undeniable green light. John slid his finger in, Jordan tight and warm around him. 

“Careful mind, first thing in the morning, was on the beers last night,” Jordan joked, a big grin on his face. John shot him a look that made the smile drop, his pupils dilating. 

“Don’t ever joke about shit when I’ve got my fingers in your arse.” 

“Sorry.” 

John worked his finger in and out, slowly, carefully. Jordan had a semi. John wanted him hard so he crooked his finger and pressed it onto Jordan’s prostate, eliciting a sigh and a noticeable cock twitch. John stroked it a second time, satisfied only when Jordan hardened up fully against his hip. Jordan tried to bring his hand over to press down against it and John tutted, shaking his head once. 

“No. Not like that.” 

Jordan looked like he wanted to argue, but he said nothing, instead folding his hand behind his head and rolling his eyes. John bent his finger onto Jordan’s prostate again and pushed hard, making him whimper. 

“Don’t roll your fucking eyes at me. I don’t like that.” 

“Jesus, okay. Sorry.” 

John pushed another one in and Jordan closed his eyes, licking at his lips. 

“You gay?” He said suddenly, causing Jordan to open his eyes. 

“No. You?” 

“Nah,” John answered, pushing his index and middle finger in and out of Jordan’s body slowly and carefully. 

Jordan wiggled against the pillows, repositioning his arms. He moved one of his thumbs against his nipple, eyeing John to see if that was allowed. John said nothing, did nothing, just sitting on his knees in his boxers with his bed head and his stubble fingering his boyfriend. He was purposefully avoiding Jordan’s prostate and was working to avoid any kind of rhythm, fully aware that Jordan was growing increasingly frustrated. 

“Want to tell us what happened last night?” John said, eyes never leaving his fingers. 

“You’re really sexy right now. With the, like, Ross Kemp voice and the hair and that.” John pulled his fingers out and away, and Jordan whined, his body clenching down around nothing. “Fine. We were out and people were calling me butter fingers and that,” Jordan stuttered, looking at John with pleading eyes. “They were a load of Newcastle fans.” 

John reinserted his fingers. “Why do you care? You don’t even fucking play for Sunderland.” 

“Don’t pretend you don’t know how it is,” Jordan gasped, his legs opening wider. “Don’t act fucking high and mighty.” 

“Who threw the first punch?” 

Jordan swallowed, closed his eyes, opened them again. “That feels good, babe, but I need more - “ 

“Who threw the first punch?” 

“I did,” Jordan groaned. “I had enough. Just because we’re fucking footballers doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be able to defend ourselves.” 

“You’re a fucking idiot.” 

“You weren’t there,” Jordan snapped, frustrated. 

John bore down on Jordan’s prostate then and in one swift movement his mouth was next to Jordan’s ear, propping himself up with his free hand. “You like being fingered by your defenders, Pickford? You used to think about this, before? Watch me in front of your goal and think about my long fingers?” 

“You are unbelievable,” Jordan moaned, moving his head so that his nose could swipe against John’s stubbly cheek. “You’re a fucking twat.” 

John moved back, back onto his heels. He took his fingers away from Jordan’s prostate, bringing him off the heat before he could start to boil, and Jordan made a choked sound in his throat that caused John’s heart to clench. Jordan’s dick was swollen and red and leaking and it must’ve been killing him. John removed a finger then, leaving Jordan both filled but not filled enough, devastatingly frustrated and whiny. 

“John,” Jordan breathed, bearing down as much as he could on John’s finger. “John. I can’t - I don’t like it,” he said, and John wondered if he was going to safe word. “It’s not enough. I feel so - “ 

“You know how I felt last night, Jordan? You know how I felt when I saw a video of you on my phone and then you wouldn’t answer my calls? This is how helpless I felt. How you feel now, that’s how I felt. See how you feel like you can’t breathe? That’s how I fucking felt last night.” 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Soon as I was done with the police, John, everyone was going - fuck, everyone was going to Liam’s and I - I came right to you. Phone was dead. Came right in a taxi home, to you.” 

John bit down on the inside of his own cheek. He put the second finger back inside, then, and moved them just so, right where Jordan wanted them. With his other hand he picked up Jordan’s dick and stroked it a couple of times, not needing to do much before he was coming all over his own stomach and John’s hand, his back arching off the bed and his hand gripping onto John’s knee. 

John collapsed down and finally, finally shoved his face into Jordan’s neck, his own painful erection sandwiched between their two bodies. 

“Don’t ever take the bait again,” John said, voice muffled. “I was so fucking scared, Jordan. So fucking scared.” 

Jordan was panting, mind fuzzy with his orgasm and the feel of John’s lips against his skin. He had the coordination to bring his arm around John’s back and press his hand to the back of John’s head, squeezing at the base of his neck reassuringly. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Wasn’t fucking thinking straight.” 

“I panicked,” John sighed, burrowing closer still, hips moving in a minute rhythm against Jordan’s side. “Didn’t know what to do, Jord, didn’t know who to phone - “ 

“It were just a pub fight, John, just a stupid drunken pub fight.” 

“You’re not just another random lad,” John insisted, rolling with the motion of Jordan sliding them so they were face to face on their sides. “You’re not just another twenty five year old lad.” 

Jordan ran his hand along John’s ribs, down over his hip and then into his boxers, tilting their foreheads together as he began getting him off. “It won’t happen again. It won’t ever happen again.” 

John stared into Jordan’s eyes as he wanked him off, blowing breath into each other’s mouths. He surged forward and licked into Jordan’s mouth just before he came, biting down hard on Jordan’s bottom lip and tasting blood. Jordan hissed and tugged his head backwards, hand never letting up its pace. John came pretty quickly, already keyed up from before, and when he was done he rolled onto his back, breathing heavily and riding the aftershocks. 

They were quiet for a few minutes, John wasn’t sure for how long. When he opened his eyes Jordan was staring at him, concerned and sincere. John wanted to fight with him for no good reason. 

“What?” John snapped. 

“That was intense, Stonesy, even for you.” 

John looked away dramatically with a heavy blink of his eyes. “You don’t even know what intense means.” 

Jordan grabbed his chin and moved John’s head so that he was forced to look into Jordan’s eyes. “Stop fucking using sex as a way to say what you feel and then closing up again afterwards.” 

John knew he was right, but he’d never admit it. “Dunno what you’re talking about.” 

“John,” Jordan barked, squeezing his fingers tighter around John’s jaw. “Pack it in.” 

John blinked a couple of times. “I was frightened. And I’m scared people think it’s okay to start squaring up to you in public now. And I’m terrified of what it’d be like if people knew we were together. It’d be even worse.” 

Jordan released John’s jaw and stroked at his beard a couple of times, thinking. “I understand that. I feel the same way, I do. But that was a one off, okay? We have to believe it was a one off or we’ll be terrified every time we leave the house. For everyone that was being a dick, John, there were two trying to defend us and all. It’s going to be alright. I promise you it’s going to be alright.” 

John nodded, tried not to burst into tears. Ridiculous, really. Utterly ridiculous. He let Jordan kiss him for a bit, somewhat apologetic about biting his lip like that, and when they both got uncomfortable with the dried come on their stomachs they got up, Jordan heading off to the bathroom whilst John checked his phone. 

He had a message on Facebook from someone he didn’t recognise, and it took him a second to realise it was Jordan’s friend he’d tried to text the night before. The response wasn’t what he was expecting, however. 

LIAM LUMSDEN:   
I think you’ve got the wrong boy mate   
But is this really John Stones hahaha   
Fucking quality mate up the reds


End file.
